


Remount

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-23
Updated: 2011-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's his first time back behind the wheel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remount

**Author's Note:**

> For lixia84. Sequel to [Recovery](http://archiveofourown.org/works/214548); takes place in Monaco this year. I know Bob’s been on the simulator but I don’t know if he’s actually driven a road car yet. In this I assume he hasn’t been allowed to take the chance.

The circus blows into town. Yachts big and small crowd the harbour, the international media hang around every likely nightspot, and the usual Monaco buzz heightens to an excited tension. It’s inescapable, the knowledge that F1 is coming to Monte Carlo, and Robert isn’t sure how he’s going to handle it.

It was okay when the races took place on the other side of the world, but right here in Monaco it’s far too close for comfort. He doesn’t want to walk down the pitlane looking like this. It’s too soon, the doctors tell him, and though he’d like to disagree, he knows that to show himself to his team, to his rivals, when he still hasn’t healed—well, that would be stupid. It would place him at a psychological disadvantage.

Better for him to wait, to return at the end of the season. He has to make a better comeback than Felipe did. He has to show everyone that he’s not beaten, that he can drive one-handed if it comes to it.

He tries not to look out of his apartment window. He ignores the emails and text messages and phone calls from various people. They probably mean well, but he doesn’t want the inconvenience of talking to them. Just because they’ve played a few games of poker, it doesn’t make them friends. And as for Fernando...

Robert pushes that thought away. At least Fernando was honest, that day he came to the hospital. The day he admitted he was glad the crash had happened. Robert thinks he admires Fernando more for saying it. A man who can admit his fears is strong. But it seems that Fernando is embarrassed by his honesty, because he’s made no attempt at contact again.

Vitaly is a different matter. He’s the only one who hasn’t been hassling Robert with suggestions of meeting up. Maybe it’s because he’s got better things to do. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t really give a shit. Or maybe it’s because he knows how Robert feels.

It’s not that he doesn’t hear from Vitaly at all. It’s just that Vitaly sends him stupid stuff, a text to say he’s bought yet another deck of playing cards, or an email reminding Robert to practice his poker face—little things, ridiculous things, messages that don’t require a reply. And Robert likes that. After so long in the hospital, where everyone asked him how he was doing, how did he feel, what did he remember, was he thirsty, did he want the curtains closed, can he feel that, can he stretch a little further... Too many questions. Too many demands for dialogue. Even his friends and family had been the same, and he was sick of it.

Vitaly didn’t seem bothered if he got a response or not. He sent the messages at odd times, two one day, none at all the following week. Robert looks forward to them.

* * *

There’s no racing on Friday. Instead there’s an endless round of media coverage and sponsor events, and every time Robert turns on the TV there’s something else to remind him of what he’s missing. He goes through his exercise routine with less enthusiasm than usual, pushing himself to stick to it longer than necessary. He only stops when his arm cramps up, a violent stabbing pain in his forearm that dulls to a nagging ache. He could take a pill, but he dropped the bottle in a drawer in the bathroom and that seems like too far away.

Instead he props his back against the wall and sinks down onto his haunches, nursing his injured arm and focusing on his breathing. In for three, out for four. The pain muddles his mind. He can get through it. Breathe. He scrunches his eyes shut, curses bouncing around his head. They’re interfering with his concentration. He breathes through his mouth, noisily, a gasp, a sigh.

There’s a rattle at the front door. It opens; closes. What the fuck...? Robert forgets his breathing pattern and stares up in mute shock.

“Hey,” says Vitaly, and grins.

Robert blinks at him. “How did you get in?” It’s such an obvious question, and usually he wouldn’t want to have asked, but he needs to know.

“Um.” Vitaly scratches his head, the grin retreating to become an embarrassed smile. “Don’t get mad, okay? I asked the maintenance guy.”

“The maintenance guy,” Robert repeats. “Why didn’t you press the buzzer?”

Vitaly tilts his head. “Because you wouldn’t have let me in. You won’t let anyone in. I hear people say it. So, I want to see you but I don’t want you to tell me to fuck off, so I did this. Good, huh?”

“Not good,” Robert says, getting to his feet awkwardly. “I’m going to have the maintenance guy fired.”

“Oh no.” Vitaly holds up his hands, looking genuinely aghast. “Don’t do that. I tricked him. I said I was you.”

This is getting more bizarre. Robert stares. “And he believed you?”

The grin returns, full and beaming. “I imitated your accent.”

It’s so improbable that Robert bursts out laughing. Suddenly he doesn’t care how Vitaly got in—he’s just pleased he’s here now, all gawky and huge and grinning. He laughs until he feels weak, then he leans against the wall for support. “You’re crazy.”

Vitaly’s eyes crinkle. “Maybe.”

“No, really. You are crazy.” Robert shuffles across the room towards the kitchen. “I need a glass of water. Do you want anything?”

“No.” Vitaly follows him. He stays out of the way, watches the slow, deliberate way Robert moves around. Not once does he offer to help. Not once does he try to open the cupboard or take down the glass or turn the tap. He just stands back and waits for Robert to do these things for himself.

Robert’s glad of the consideration. He drinks his water, tips the rest down the sink, and turns about. “I hope you didn’t come for a game of cards.”

Another smile. “I came to take you out.”

“Out?” Disappointment nudges him, then irritation takes hold. “I can’t go out. Not when I look like this.”

Vitaly casts a measuring gaze over Robert’s tracksuit bottoms and t-shirt. He studies the scars. He glances at Robert’s tousled hair. He shrugs. “So you look less handsome than me. Why should I care? Come, we’re going out.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Robert glares at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I could carry you,” Vitaly offers, then pauses, seeming to give this serious consideration. He mumbles something in Russian and steps forward.

“You bastard, no!” Robert’s torn between anger and laughter, horrified and amused by the idea of being slung over Vitaly’s shoulder and borne off somewhere. He’s in no fit state to be chased around his apartment by someone bigger and stronger than him, and so he squashes himself into a corner by the refrigerator. “Fuck off!”

Vitaly doesn’t move, just looks at him with big eyes and a curiously endearing expression. “Come on. We won’t go far, I promise.”

Robert gets the feeling that unless he agrees, Vitaly will stay here all day. He sighs, makes a show of reluctance. “Okay, then. You win. But we don’t go far, alright?”

* * *

They go as far as the parking garage beneath the condo block. Fluorescent lights flicker in a distant corner, and the temperature down here is warmer than the air-conditioned cool of the apartment. From far away come the sounds of the street, but it’s muffled, as if it’s in another world. The garage itself is silent, half full of cars expensive and ordinary, all shiny paintwork and gleaming chrome.

Their footsteps echo across the concrete. Robert breathes in the smell of confinement and oil and the lingering stink of exhaust fumes, and he almost stumbles. Vitaly moves alongside him, not quite catching him but allowing him to right himself and pull back without any loss of face.

“Over here,” Vitaly says, and takes a key from his pocket, points it at a car. It’s nothing flash, just a rental car to judge by the advertisements on its plates, an Audi four-door. An incongruous choice for Vitaly, but maybe that’s the point.

“Where are we going?” Robert asks as Vitaly presses the remote and the doors bleep open. “Are you taking me on a romantic picnic in the hills?”

Vitaly raises his eyebrows. “Is that what you’d like?”

The question throws Robert off-balance. He’s not sure what he’d like, but he knows it’d involve this man beside him, if only for the fact that he knows he can trust him. He makes a noncommittal noise and approaches the car.

“Not that side.” Vitaly stops him, puts out a hand. Points. “The other side.”

Robert stares at the car. Stares at Vitaly. “I knew you were crazy.”

“No.” Vitaly sounds so certain. “Please. Get in.”

“That’s the driver’s side,” Robert says, very slowly.

Vitaly nods. “Yes. Please to get in.”

“I can’t drive.” Robert hears the change in his voice, feels the ache in his throat as he says it. “Vitaly, I can’t drive yet. Not yet.”

Vitaly gives him that look again. Patient, understanding, curious.

“Shit,” says Robert. “Fuck it.” He goes around the other side of the car and wrenches open the door. When it’s pulled wide, he holds himself there, caught between the bodywork and the door. He peers inside at the seat, the gearbox, the dashboard, the wheel. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. He’s been in a dozen cars since the accident, but each time he’s been a passenger. He hasn’t sat behind the wheel. Not since the crash.

He takes a deep breath and slides inside. The door swings shut, doesn’t quite catch. He pulls the handle up and brings the door closed with a satisfying thump. The action stops him from thinking too much, from remembering, although as he’s sick of telling people, he doesn’t actually remember the crash.

Vitaly gets in the passenger side. The seat is already pushed right back, and he stretches out his legs and puts his seatbelt on and folds his hands in his lap.

Robert fumbles with his own seatbelt. It feels wrong across his chest, like it’s constricting him. He plucks it away, shrugs, tries to get used to it. His feet have automatically taken up position on the pedals. He flexes his ankles, presses down on the brake. He inhales, tastes the blandness of the Audi’s interior, the industrial carpet cleaner they use for hire cars and the cheap pine air freshener. Beneath it he can smell the leather of the seats and the plastic of the dash, familiar scents, car scents. He relaxes a little.

The wheel waits for him. Robert puts his hands on it. Tentatively at first, the fingers of both hands hooked over the bottom part of the wheel. He jigs it to the left, then the right, a little harder. A dim memory stirs in the back of his mind, a car out of control, the back sliding, the front end bucking, a scream of crushed metal, and silence, heavy and red and black.

He flicks his gaze up at the rear-view mirror, sees the startled expression in his own eyes, realises he was expecting to see debris and wreckage. He exhales, ignores the tingling in his injured hand, and shifts his grip. Ten o’clock, two o’clock. He grasps the wheel then releases the tension until he’s holding it like a normal person out for a casual drive.

“How is it?” asks Vitaly, voice soft and deep.

Robert blinks, stares at him. He can’t answer because he doesn’t know. His fingers tighten. He straightens his arms, presses himself back into the seat, gazes straight ahead through the windscreen. He doesn’t see the garage walls or the car parked opposite. He sees a circuit, red and white kerbs and dark grey asphalt, advertising hoardings flashing past at two hundred miles an hour, a flutter of pit-boards, the chequered flag. He feels the pounding of his blood, the bubble of adrenalin, the instinct of when exactly to turn, to brake, to accelerate. His body tightens, a rush of longing so intense it batters at him like storm-tossed waves in the harbour.

“Robert,” says Vitaly. “Take the keys.” He holds them out.

Almost trembling, Robert accepts. His breathing is ragged, emotion and fear and yearning all tumbled together. It takes two attempts before he can guide the key into the ignition. He pauses then, glances across at Vitaly, who nods and smiles.

He turns the key. The engine roars. The car quivers beneath him, around him. It comes alive for him. Robert stifles a cry of joy and holds the wheel tight. His feet dance on the pedals, the note of the engine rising and falling. It’s like a song, and it’s beautiful, and he’s missed this so much, oh so much—

He moves his feet aside and turns off the ignition. The car falls silent.

Vitaly puts one hand on the wheel beside Robert’s hand. They sit there in the hush without speaking, without looking at one another.

“Thank you,” Robert says at last. He says it to Vitaly’s faint reflection in the windscreen. “Thank you for this.”

Vitaly’s reflection smiles.

And Robert smiles back.


End file.
